Any Moment
by Child of a Broken Dawn
Summary: This is what their fairytales will say: the prince was lost, seduced, ensnared by a brazen witch away from his True Love. This is how you will think of us. But what if it's not true? Stories are seldom what they appear to be at first glance... (WxL FAIRYTALE AU.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Yes, Fiddler's Green is still going. In theory. I got writer's block for it, and what's good for writer's block? That's right: starting a new story!

This idea has been kicking around for a long time, and like with most of my ideas, you have **Gleefully Wicked** to thank for it getting written.

There are some references to various things in here, including Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella, Addams Family Values, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. If you can find them all, you get a cookie.

* * *

_Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince._

The carriage hit another bump in the heavily-pitted road, and the entire royal family of Calliopa involuntarily jumped a few inches into the air. A cloud of dust blew into the window whose red velvet curtains had been pulled aside to let in refreshing breezes. And the small fly now buzzing around the sumptuous interior- small, but very loud, particularly in the silent little space.

It was not the kind of carriage designed for bumps. Indeed, its entire being seemed to suggest that any road containing bumps should be ashamed of itself.

The exterior was made of exotic woods imported from the East, but that was hardly obvious. Over the wood, a layer of gilding had been applied; it was designed to shine like the very sun, to symbolize the king's role as the light of the land. Each door was adorned with the family crest, etched into the gilding. Beneath the crest, similarly etched scrolls bore the family motto: _Lux Aeterna._ Pulled by four pure white horses of flawless pedigree and driven by a coachman in livery that would cost a farmer a year's wages, it was the sort of carriage that implied burning at the stake- at minimum –as punishment for allowing a road to get bumpy.

Cows stared at it as it passed otherwise-empty fields. They didn't seem impressed.

"How bucolic!"

The silence was broken by a young woman seated near one window. She plied her purple silk fan and leaned slightly forward, observing the unobservant cows. It was her third attempt at conversation in the past hour, and she peered at her family with aggressive cheer to see who would take the bait.

Clever and lovely, Crown Princess Lauren always gave the impression that she'd tragically received too much attention as a child. She had recently wed a biddable man from a country where hunting woodland animals was more or less a religion.

After a minute of her family avoiding each other's eyes, the queen gave a slightly strained smile.

"Yes, dear," she replied, pulling thread through the handkerchief she was embroidering. "Quite bucolic."

And the fly was the only sound again. Lauren frowned. When coughing, feigning a yawn, and rearranging the satin skirts of her gown produced no effect, she tried again.

This time, the relentless smile fell on her brother. "Lucas?"

"Mmh?" The laces of his vest were partially untied again. Her lips thinned, but remained curving upwards.

"What do you think of the land?" Lauren asked with a gesture toward the window. The road chose that inopportune moment to take them past what looked like- and, judging by the stench on the breeze, was –some peasant's outhouse. Her elegant nose wrinkled a bit.

"Well," the prince replied, clearly stifling laughter, "it's certainly memorable."

Lauren shot him The Glare, a patented expression of hers which promised serious unpleasantness to the recipient. Few people, let alone ladies, could threaten with a look while maintaining a calm countenance. Lauren was a master.

The hiss of silk thread through cambric paused. Queen Alice glanced up from her sewing.

"Lauren," she chided, eyeing her daughter reproachfully. The latter patted her neat chignon with practiced idleness.

"Mother?"

"Your brother can hardly help what scenery we were passing, dear."

Having assured herself that no strands of chestnut hair had escaped their silver pins, the princess replied, "I said nothing unkind to him."

"No," Alice said calmly, "but I can feel that glower of yours. The temperature must drop five degrees when you narrow your eyes."

"Lauren." This from the king, seeming to notice his wife and children for the first time. "Apologize to your brother."

For a moment, just a moment, the grand and gracious lady disappeared. Replaced by a frustrated, quite human young woman who stared at the older man in disbelief.

"But father-" she began, only to be cut off when Mal raised a beringed hand.

"A lady shows no unpleasant emotions," he said.

"Father, I merely-"

"I thought you old enough to be done with tutors, child," her father interrupted. His much lined face was like stone. "You are a woman grown and wed. No more childishness. Apologize."

And Her Royal Highness Lauren Celeste Aurora Magdalene, Crown Princess of Calliopa, was back in all her frosty glory. With a rustle of skirts against velvet upholstery, she turned to Lucas. He shifted uncomfortably as she smiled, noticing that the smile didn't reach her eyes.

"I beg your pardon, brother. I do not know what came over me."

"It's quite alright," he mumbled. A little nod, and Lauren resumed watching the so-bucolic countryside pass by outside the window.

She had, the prince thought, been preferable when they were children hitting each other with wooden swords. At least that had been honest.

After an hour of silence, unbroken but for Alice's sewing and Lucas' fidgeting, the brilliant sunlight filtering in through the windows began to break up. Golden beams on the red cushions were interspersed with periods of deep gloom. Upon leaning out the window and nearly being hit in the face by a pine branch, Lucas discovered why. The carriage was driving through a forest, one that was growing denser with alarming speed. All that lay ahead, as far as he could see, were more tall trees. They grew close together, with the road winding like a ribbon through their ranks. At midday, he supposed, the dim, cool space would be pleasant. With evening fast approaching, it just seemed sinister.

Mal, too, looked out the window. With a grimace, he pulled shut the curtains.

"Lauren," he barked. Not even looking up from her improving novel, his daughter did the same.

In the darkness, a tiny flame flared and grew. Alice had struck the small flint intended for just this purpose and lit the interior lamps. Even the flickering of the flames in their glass sconces could not disguise the way her face had gone white.

"Mother?" Lucas asked hesitantly. The queen gave a wan smile and smoothed the veil covering her red curls.

"Night comes so late in summer." But her voice trembled.

Something was wrong. But glancing at Mal and Lauren, Lucas discerned nothing but annoyance. Finally, the king sighed heavily.

"Woman, calm yourself," he said gruffly. Alice lowered her eyes, but her brow remained knitted in concern. Mal sniffed and turned to Lucas. The heavy chain of office across his chest clanked as he leaned forward.

"What do you know of Schwartzwald?"

Lucas blinked. "Nothing, sire. Even the name is unfamiliar."

"Consider this an education, then." Mal shifted on the seat. He had been handsome once: tall, muscular, broad-shouldered, but his girth was increasing with age. "We are presently driving through it."

"With the curtains shut."

The comment earned him a stern look. "One need not see it to learn from its errors."

Lauren sighed, and her father looked across the carriage at her. "Daughter? Is there something you wish to say?"

"Oh, sire," she said lightly, "I thought only of how right you were. Proud Schwartzwald." A little shake of the head consigned the land and its pride to a cautionary tale.

Mal sat back against the cushions and waved a hand at her. "Then by all means, educate your younger brother on its folly."

With a nod, she began, "The county Schwartzwald has ever been kept alive by sin. The dark arts of magic nourish its vast forest…and it is all forest."

"They say," Mal took over smoothly, "that the count and his family practice unholy rites. In particular, it is rumored they consort with the dead." He snorted. "Stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. Superstition to frighten women and children. But the county keeps to itself. I believe none of the ruling family have been seen for years."

"There's a daughter," Lauren supplied, dark eyes cooler than usual. "I met her once at the Gendian court. She had a lover there, I believe. Ugly girl. Didn't say much. Just sat in a corner scowling at the world all day."

"Perhaps she was pleasant if you got to know her," Alice murmured. Both her husband and daughter regarded her dubiously.

Waving his hand, the king dismissed the Lady Whatever-her-name-was as if brushing away the fly from hours earlier. "Doubtful, my dear. The apple never falls far from the tree."

"Well, there are certainly enough trees to fall from, aren't there?" Lucas said, and waited. It was a disappointment, but not a surprise, when no-one responded to the quip. Mal even looked dangerously close to rolling his eyes.

"Lucas," he said wearily, "if I wanted amusement, I'd have brought along the court jester."

"Perhaps your new wife won't have one, and you can entertain her," Lauren added with a small, decorous laugh. A parlour laugh, though they were alone in the enclosed space.

Slumping in his seat, the prince ran a hand through his already disheveled brown hair. His sister had been larger once, more of a person. Even now, she was a gifted stateswoman and speaker. Enough to inspire Mal's one breach of convention in naming her, rather than Lucas, as his heir. The princess would be queen, and a capable one. Her burly, doting husband would only be prince consort. And yet, the creature perched demurely on the seat in her blue satin dress acted more like a simpering china doll.

Alice, too, who the minstrels said had enchanted a young King Malcolm with her spirit as well as her sweet face, had fallen. Some of that spirit had come through in Lucas' childhood, when she composed silly poems on the spot to make him laugh at dull court events. But as he grew, she shrank to just The Queen Mother. Just as Lauren became The Gentle Princess. And now…

Lucas pulled the gold chain hanging around his neck over his head and opened its locket pendant. Inside was an expertly-done, miniature oil painting of a woman about his age. Her hair was the bright yellow of the sun; her skin the perfect white of fresh milk. Her blue eyes sparkled like the diamonds set in the tiara on her head. Her rosebud, rose-colored lips were turned up in a soft smile.

"Lucas." Lauren's voice brought him back to Earth. When he looked up, he saw a knowing expression on her face.

"Dreaming of your betrothed?"

Because that was the point of this journey. To unite His Royal Highness Lucas Benedict Lancelot Herman, Prince of Calliopa with Her Royal Highness, Amanda Emmanuela Lucinda Rosamunde, Crown Princess of Evermere in holy matrimony.

Years of going largely unnoticed in Lauren's shadow (and the bustle of court) wasted. Now it was time for him to shrink and take his place in the story-book illustration. The Prince Consort, like Lauren's husband. He'd sit in the background, day after day, until-

"What is the meaning of this?" Mal thundered. It took a moment for Lucas to realize that he was being spoken to.

And that he'd been speaking, too. Aloud. To the portrait.

"Ah…" he began, but some merciful cosmic force spared him having to answer. Because, at that moment, the carriage began bouncing and shaking alarmingly. Mal cursed under his breath and, with some difficulty, opened the small door used for communication with the driver.

"Jenkins!" he shouted- for the wind had picked up, and howled through the darkness outside like a wild thing. Rain blew through the little door in small bursts. "Jenkins, what's going on?"

The driver's voice was barely audible. "I don't know, Your Majesty. This blasted storm came up out of nowhere, like some sorcery!"

"Will you stop talking nonsense, man?" the king roared, but Jenkins either didn't hear or didn't care.

"I can manage it, Your Majesty, not to worry. But I would advise not opening doors or windows for a while."

Lucas could never explain it, not for years to come. Something seemed to call to him in that moment, urging him to open the door. Open the door and live, or obey orders and die slowly, a little cut-out prince. Without stopping to think, he reached out, grasped the Rococo, gold-alloy handle, and pushed the door open.

At first, it seemed like the cloudy night sky had switched places with the ground. He stared into blackness broken in places by swirling mist. Then, a few pebbles tumbled down from the road beneath them, and he realized what he was looking at.

The carriage was bouncing like a storm-tossed ship along the edge of a vast ravine.

In the moments after this realization, several things happened. First, Mal jerked around and stared at him angrily.

"By god, shut that door, boy!" he yelled over the amplified noise of the storm. "Do you mean to drown us?"

Lauren began to snap abut her dress getting spotted and her book ruined. The wind wailed on, carrying buckets of rain into the carriage and snuffing out the lamps. And strangest of all, the prince could swear he heard a child's laughter somewhere in the deep forest.

It took only one good jolt. A stone under the wheels, perhaps, or a horse frightened by the lightning. Whatever it was, the carriage tipped sickeningly to one side, out over the ledge, and Lucas found himself dangling over empty air.

His hand must have slipped. There was no reason for him to let go on purpose. But the outcome was the same regardless.

Lucas fell from the tilted carriage, over the cliff and into nothingness. The last thing he registered, before the impact with the ravine floor, was Alice's scream.

* * *

**A/N:** Cliffhanger? No, cliffFALLER. I'm so witty.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Fun fact- I write these chapters during downtime at work. That should tell you something (either that I'm irresponsible or there's a lot of downtime or both. Both is good).

I do not own Lucas, Wednesday, Amanda, Alice, Mal, or any of the other Addamses. Lauren is joint property with **Gleefully Wicked**.

* * *

Heaven felt an awful lot like rocks. In all his hour-long, droning sermons, the court priest had never mentioned rocks. Just streets paved with gold, pearly gates, and cloud palaces where the faithful forever sang praise. With harps.

But he heard no harps. Twittering birds could be celestial, he supposed. And the air felt pleasantly balmy. Pine scent on the breeze, though…were there trees in Heaven? Lily fields had been mentioned in at least one sermon he'd stayed awake for. So why couldn't he smell them?

Perhaps he was some distance from the lily fields. Yes, that had to be it.

There were still incongruous rocks poking into his back. They could be very hard clouds, but wasn't everything here supposed to be wonderful? Not even unpaved streets with bumpy clods of gold could explain it.

Bumpy streets. Bumpy roads. Details of the previous night flooded his mind- the storm, the ravine, his mother's high, desperate scream. For some reason, the story of Schwartzwald also stood out in his dim memory.

If there was pine smell and rocky ground, could he be…?

No. A fall from that height would easily have killed a man twice Lucas' height and weight. There was no way his lanky body could have come through the impact unscathed. Ergo, this must be Heaven. That argument mentally settled, the prince opened his eyes.

Yes, Heaven. Had to be. The sky was white, soft-looking, and radiant. No sunlight was ever so pure or shone with such brilliance.

Too brilliant. Too radiant. Lucas squinted with some difficulty; the light shot lances of pain through his head. In fact, he was becoming rapidly aware that various aches and pains plagued his entire body. His right leg in particular throbbed, like it was being hit repeatedly with a blacksmith's hammer. If this was Heaven, why did he hurt?

Of course, there was another, unthinkable option. He knew of no cardinal sins he'd committed, but one might have slipped in unnoticed. The priest always spoke of the broad, easy way to destruction. TO sin was far more likely than to live a holy life, for the traps of evil were insidious.

Could he, in a moment of weakness, condemned himself to hell?

Suddenly the warmth seemed oppressive, the light blinding. The rocks felt even harder. And could what he'd taken for birds have been imps mocking his mortal pride?

It was with these thoughts boiling in his brain that Lucas noticed the sound of footfalls nearby. An angel, come to guide him to his reward? Or a demon to begin his everlasting torment?

Erring on the side of caution, he muttered, "Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Ad- adveniat regn…" What came out, however, was little more than croaking. Even that died as the quiet footsteps came closer.

A clatter sounded, like a small rock sliding down the face of a larger one. "Damn," someone cursed.

So not an angel. Lucas drew in a sharp breath. He was indeed in hell.

"Fiend," he tried to say, "leave me be." But once more, the words died on his parched lips. SO he cound only panic in silence as a light hand probed his leg. The gentleness of the touch was surprising for a demon, but that oddity was driven from his mind as the hand touched a spot that doubled the throbbing pain. A strangled cry escaped his lips.

The slight pressure immediately vanished. "So," the demon said, "you're awake."

A female demon. A succubus? To tempt him with lascivious pleasures as well as inflicting physical torture? Attempting to nod only made his head pound even more. "Yes," he croaked, and by some miracle it was intelligible.

"Good. If you lasted the night, you'll likely live." Live? What did the succubus mean? He was dead, had to be dead. Thrown from a carriage over the edge of a massive gorge- how could he not be dead? Maybe it was an illusion, false hope before the terrors to come.

"Is-" His voice failed. Somewhere above, the sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle, and a moment later water cascaded into his dry mouth.

Ignoring this latest un-demonic behavior, he continued, "Is this hell?"

"No." The voice was mild and unconcerned. His fears began to ease.

"Then…" he coughed. "The you are not a succubus?"

There was a pause. "No, though I have been called so in the past," the voice finally said. An edge had crept into it.

"Is it Heaven, then?" Lucas asked.

"No." Once again, the mysterious voice was calm. The momentary coldness had passed. And when…she?...spoke again, it was with the barest hint of amusement.

"I'm not an angel, either, if you thought to ask."

"Then what are you? What afterlife have I been consigned to?" he said. His mind raced. Perhaps this was the Elysian Fields of his beloved Greek legends.

Now the voice sounded annoyed. "You're alive, sir." What felt like a boot prodded his side. The twinge of pain was definitely too great for Heaven and too small for hell. He experimentally tried to wiggle his fingers.

"As for my nature," she went on, "I'm a woman. No more, no less. If you seek proof, I'd advise opening your eyes."

Careful. "Would you not say that if you were indeed a demon, to give me false hope?" Lucas asked. Something very like a snort came from above his feet.

"Open your eyes, dunce."

Sighing, he obliged. And saw that she spoke the truth. Standing over him was a very human-looking woman, arms crossed, pale face sardonic. Though his vision was still blurred, he could make out her simple black gown and yellowed apron. A servant girl, then, or a peasant.

He cleared his throat, court manners rising to the surface. "Madam, if you could find a way of conveying me to your lord's manor-"

Mal's words from the previous night echoed in his head. _They say the count and his family practice unholy rites._ Still, better than spending the night on rocks, and this girl's cottage was doubtless cramped enough. He'd take his chances with a wicked count.

"-to your lord's manor, where I may rest and regain my strength, I would be very grateful."

The woman tilted her head to the side. With the motion, he noticed that her black hair was strangely short, curving around her chin. "How do you know the count will receive you? He does not often entertain," she asked.

And now the part he dreaded. "Do you know who I am?"

"Pray, educate me," she said dryly.

"I am," he said, "Prince Lucas of Calliopa."

The expected hurried apologies and curtsies and scraping…didn't come. Instead, she just stood there, staring at him with an inscrutable look on her face. After some time, he felt compelled to add, "Truly.

"Well," she replied, "Prince Lucas of Calliopa Truly, do you know who **I** am?"

A sneaking suspicion tickled the back of his mind, but he answered, "Forgive me, no."

She slowly walked to stand behind his head, out of sight. For some reason, this didn't seem exactly safe, but Lucas held his peace. He'd taken this place for hell only moments ago, so his judgment was likely impaired.

"I am Wednesday, oldest child of the house Addams, viscountess of Schwartzwald."

So this was the daughter Lauren had spoken of. She didn't seem ugly, apart from her odd hair, but that could just be his limited vision. He grimaced as another wave of pain shot through his leg.

"A pleasure, milady."

"The pleasure is mine, Highness," she said absently. And seconds later, Lucas felt himself lifted by the shoulders. He tried to twist around, but her grip under his arms was like iron.

"You can move, but you can't walk." It was a response to his unspoken protests, somehow. "And much as I hate outsiders, I cannot let you die here."

As she began dragging him across the ground, the pain intensified with each bump or dip in the land. He found himself desperate for distraction. "Why not leave me with some peasant, then?"

"There are none," came the brief reply.

"Then who does your family rule?"

"No-one. Unless you count crows and badgers."

"You mean to tell me," Lucas said dubiously, "that the only humans in this vast forest are you and your family?" They went over a particularly large bump; the prince winced.

"Sorry. Yes. We and our servants." From her tone, the subject was closed. They travelled in silence until they rounded a bend in the path- and his mouth fell open in shock.

Before them lay a huge clearing in the dense forest, the moss-hung trees falling back before a manor house. It was the size of a small castle, complete with a tower whose oval window faced the path. Despite its size, the place seemed to be in a state of disrepair. Windows held costly glass panes, but many were broken or cracked. The roof was missing tiles in places, and vines stretched dark green tendrils up nearly every wall. A stable sat, half-caved-in, some distance from the house.

"It's a ruin," Lucas whispered before he could stop himself.

"It's home," was all Wednesday said. But he thought she dragged him across a suspiciously large number of rocks as they approached.

She ignored the tall wooden front doors, going instead around to one side. They slowly passed between the stable and the house; he spotted a single black horse in the lone remaining stall. It gave him a penetrating look. Until that day, he'd never seen a menacing horse before. Somehow, this one managed it. Wednesday paused to follow the line of his gaze, and sighed.

"Delilah, calm down," she called. The horse rolled its eyes, a disturbingly human gesture, and resumed eating oats from its trough. The viscountess resumed pulling Lucas towards the house.

"The horse…" he began, but was unsure how to finish. Fortunately, he didn't have to.

"Delilah." Opening a side door, she walked through backwards and dragged him into a large room with bare stone walls. "Once a very unpleasant noblewoman who insulted my great-great-grandmother. But she's been a horse for so long that she won't let us turn her back."

A wave of dizziness overrode his curiosity. Even through the exhaustion, though, he noticed that his rescuer glanced around furtively as they passed a long, empty table and a huge fireplace. In the latter, some large animal roasted on a spit; it cracked and Wednesday jumped.

"Why such stealth," he finally managed to ask.

"Because of my-" she began to whisper, only to be interrupted by what sounded like an older woman.

"Darling!"

"…mother," she finished. There was a soft rustle of skirts along the floor. Though his eyelids drooped, Lucas could make out a tall woman in a shockingly tight gown coming into view. She placed a hand on Wednesday's shoulder and glanced down at Lucas.

"Who is this?" the countess asked.

Wednesday bit her lip. "This is…Lucas."

"And why did you drag him home?"

"I found him in the ravine. He's badly injured. I might actually eviscerate Pugsley this time." The last only added to Lucas' confusion. What was a Pugsley?

"He'd love that, my dear." The older woman more floated than walked back out of his dim field of vision. Wednesday seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

"I know, Mother."

She resumed dragging the prince, but was halted at the foot of what looked like a long staircase by one final smoky-voiced comment.

"Wednesday, child, remember that he can only consent if he is awake."

"Mother!"

Lucas was vaguely aware of what this meant. Most young men his age at court had dallied with chambermaids or peasant wenches at some point. That he hadn't was a mental sore spot for him; now that he was promised to Amanda, however, it no longer mattered. " 'M betrothed," he slurred.

Apparently this went unheard, for Wednesday just said, "I'm not exactly what a lordling dreams to swive, Mother." An intake of breath told Lucas that the mother was as shocked by her daughter's vulgar language as he was. But she said nothing.

Suddenly, he felt as if the softest featherbed imaginable, or even a small cloud, had replaced the hard flagstones of the floor. The door at the top of the stairs drew nearer, but he floated rather than bumped towards it, faster than even the unusually strong maiden could have dragged him.

The sensation continued as he traveled down a long hall and into a sizeable chamber. His main impression was of wall-hangings with a good deal of deep red embroidery, and of Wednesday stoking the fire. Herself? That couldn't be right. It had to be a vision brough on by shock. Nobles didn't tend fireplaces. He moved a bit and felt, not the strange cushion, but a perfectly normal bed beneath him. Then, sleep came at last.

He woke only once, when the small window across from the bed showed stars and a full moon. A figure working at a little mahogany table turned around. It was Wednesday.

She stepped closer to the bed, a silver cup in her hand. "Drink."

"What is it?" he asked, voice slurred with drowsiness.

"You can't be awake yet." She raised the cup to his mouth. "This will make you sleep while I heal you, since the process will be painful."

He took a sip. "You are a doctor, then? A woman doctor?"

With a wry smile, she answered, "No. A witch."

A thousand questions rose to the tip of his tongue, but the concoction tasted sweet, and the bed was warm and soft, and sleep pulled him down once more.

* * *

**A/N:** I just realized that if I wrote this much every day for 30 days, I'd have a NaNoWriMo novel. Huh.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay on this one, especially since it's a shorter chapter than the others. I could try to make excuses, but the honest reason is that I was lazy. Hope this very belated update makes up for it, at least in part. Enjoy.

* * *

People scream when one puts a caterpillar in their mouths. Especially a live caterpillar. Especially the furry, bulbous kind that feel like a small boar carcass inflated with water. All qualifiers aside, the nature of the caterpillar seldom effects the nature of the scream.

So when Prince Lucas awoke to feel something like a small, water-filled boar carcass crawling around his open mouth, the resulting shriek was no surprise.

He leapt from the bed- or tried to. The linen sheets had been very firmly tucked under the mattress, as if to prevent precisely this action. What began as a fluid leap ended up a flailing motion, rather like a flopping fish. Bouncing back down on the pillow, he desperately tried to keep his mouth open. At the first sensation of bristles on his tongue, he began attempting to spit the thing out. Without closing his mouth.

The first attempt was unsuccessful. SO was the second. On the third, the insect actually managed to end up further back on his tongue, dangerously close to going down his throat.

Lucas tried to quell his growing panic. Clearly, actions fueled by fear were getting him nowhere. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths through his nose. Finally, he shifted his tongue carefully and spit with all his might. The caterpillar flew through the air and across the room. Before he could celebrate even momentarily, though, the heavy door creaked open.

Time seemed to slow. He saw the arc of the saliva-covered insect's flight, saw Wednesday step through the door with a towel over her arm. And, a split second later, saw the caterpillar land on top of her head.

With a wince, he waited for the inevitable screams and running about. Years of living with Lauren had taught him what happened when noblewomen came into contact with insects. Well, mofe likely it was all women, but ladies must be worse than commoners. The last time a fly had alighted on Lauren's hand, a priceless porcelain vase from Cathay had been among the casualties.

But Wednesday just blinked for a moment. Then, she reached up, grabbed the furry creature- gently –and examined it.

"Two queations," she said a minute later. "First, whay is Attila in here?"

Lucas coughed. "Attila?"

"My youngest brother's pet." She held up the still-damp caterpillar. "All hell breaks loose if he's ever unaccounted for."

For once in his life, the prince was completely speechless. Etiquette provided no acceptable response or action to use in this situation. What did one do when one's rescuer, a lady from a mysterious, infamous noble family, thought you'd absconded with her baby brother's pet caterpillar? Said rescuer didn't look too put out, he noticed; in fact, that smirk he'd seen when last conscious ghosted around the corners of her wide mouth. But what if his response changed that for the worse.

He cleared his throat. "Milady," he began. And stopped. Truly- what _did_ one say? Apologize? Act as if it had never happened? Incquire as to the future health of the furry mouth-invader? Lucas pulled the thick wollen blanket up to his chin, finally managing to get his arms free. He stalled for time as the viscountess just stood there and stared. He could swear she was looking through him, right into his very soul.

"I sincerely apologize," he said at last.

"Apology accepted," she replied. "It'll teach him hospitality if I keep Attila for a while, at least." With that, she tucked the caterpillar (now wriggling in an almost indignant manner) into her apron pocket. Lucas silently watched her approach the bed. In one motion, sheflicked the towel open and let it settle across the thick coverlet, over his stomach and legs. Then, she stood back and watched him again. A few long seconds passed in silence, with the two of them staring at each other. Finally, Lucas spoke.

"What was that for?"

"What?"

"The towel."

Wednesday offered no reply. He opened his mouth again- and managed to sit up just in time to violently empty the contents of his stomach onto the towel.

"That," she said; the prince wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. For a brief moment, Lauren's disapproving face flashed in his mind. How many times had she reminded him of the difference between his handkerchief and his hand or sleeve? He reached for his waistcoat pocket and the square of fine linen therein.

The discovery that he wasn't wearing a waistcoat came as less of a shock than it probably should have. The discovery that he was stark naked was another matter entirely.

With a bit of embarrassed shuffling, he pulled the bedclothes up to his chin. Wednesday calmly gathered up the vomit-filled towel, rolling her eyes.

"It's rather late for modesty, Highness." Who do you think undressed you to begin with?" As he spluttered, she carefully carried the reeking square of cloth to the fireplace and dropped it into the flames.

"But…that's not…"

"Proper?" she supplied, raising one eyebrow.

"Exactly!" he said. You're a lady, well-born, in all likelihood unmarried-"

Wednesday interrupted him. "Would it be less improper if I were lowborn?" Her tone had a knife-edge beneath the words, but Lucas pressed on.

"And, grateful though I am for your assistance, there are certain boundaries! What would your lady mother say?"

By this point, she had turned once again to the little table and was grinding something with a mortar and pestle. "Probably something uncomfortably frank about consent," she muttered. Lucas, slowly turning sunset red, wasn't listening.

"Quite apart from that, madam, I happen to be betrothed. If word of this ever became public…"

A small explosion from the worktable sent a cloud of purple smoke into the air. Lucas' tirade finally ended, culminating in what sounded suspiciously like a yelp. Wednesday glanced up.

"Silence at last. I was afraid I'd have to slap you if you didn't calm down."

With that, she approached the bed, a slightly steaming cup in her hand. Judging by her slow, cautious tread, it was full to the brim.

"What's that?" He asked, more than a little suspicious. Rather than answer, she held it out to him. The liquid inside was the same vivid purple as the cloud of smoke. When it became apparent that his question would not be answered in the immediate future, he slowly took the cup and drained it. A moment later, he choked and began coughing.

"This- this tastes like pond scum!" he gasped, once talking again became a possibility. She nodded.

"That's why I didn't tell you what it was," came the reply. "It's to quiet your stomach, if you still want to know."

Lucas remembered the towel incident. In spite of the foul-tasting purple mess, his insides turned over. "And why does my stomach need quieting in the first place?"

"Because bone-setting spells really shouldn't be done without a day of fasting beforehand," Wednesday replied. She set about corking bottles and clearing away dried leaves. Lucas' eyes widened.

"Spell?"

Pausing in her work, the viscountess looked up at him. "Yes. Spell."

An uneasy memory crept, half-formed and hazy, into Lucas' mind. He shifted slightly beneath the blanket and sheets. "What manner of physician uses spells?"

"None. I told you, I am not a physician." She held his gaze. "I'm a witch."

Something in her tone was odd. Not fear, not anger, but almost daring him to reply. Something like defiance. It was in her eyes, too; a hint of fire. Clearly, she had said this often enough to expect a certain reaction. And there was a proscribed reaction, Lucas supposed. He should be crossing himself, invoking divine aid, rebuking this devil's handmaid in the name of the Lord.

But all he found himself saying was, "How strange. I took you for a fairy." She relaxed to a barely perceptible degree; for some reason, his own heart felt a bit lighter. That same little smirk crossed her face.

"What gave it away," she said over the clatter of a vial stand being carefully moved, "the golden curls or the glittering pink wings?"

"Neither. It was definitely the overpowering scent of roses," he said, smiling.

Now that he was fully conscious and sunlight streamed through the window, Lucas could see the room more clearly than the previous night. It was circular and fairly small, large enough for the bed, table, a straight-backed chair, and little else. The stone walls were hung with tapestries similar to those in the hall; battle scenes, he could now see. With highly technical depictions of knights disemboweling their enemies. The four=poster bed had strange scratches on its ebony posts, and its deep green curtains had been patched in several places. A wardrobe stood in one corner, with an eerie, leafy face carved on each door. Otherwise, his surroundings were remarkably unremarkable- for the house of a witch. The fireplace was of average size, the table unusual only in its contents.

But he was soon distracted from his observations when Wednesday closed the lid of a large leather case and spoke again.

"And to answer your earlier hysteria- I mean, question," she said, the mistake clearly intentional, "there will be no scandal. Rest assured that I examined your body in a medical capacity, nothing more."

"As for my virtue," she continued, "precious little of it remains. Your beloved will never know about this, if you wish. Does that quiet your mind somewhat?"

Lucas mulled this over for a moment. "Yes," he finally said.

"Good." She indicated what he'd taken for another, much larger towel draped over the back of the chair. "A nightshirt on loan from my father. I apologize for its size; he's considerably larger than you. Highness," she finished, with a brief curtsy, and started for the door.

"Wait, milady," he called, before his brain could catch his tongue. The witch paused, brown eyes quizzical.

"Yes?"

He'd gone this far. It couldn't hurt much more to continue. What was this woman to him, anyway, but a temporary caretaker, soon forgotten? After the proper monetary thanks had been delivered, of course.

"What do you mean, that…that little of your virtue remains?"

As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them. His time with her might be fleeting, but that was no excuse for rudeness. And he found himself wanting to stay in her good graces, something his bold question would undoubtedly not allow.

Sure enough, something in her face seemed to close off, leaving a stony mask behind. "I am not a virgin, sir," she answered, the words frosty. "I have taken a lover to my bed. Are there any further inquiries, or have I leave to go?"

At this subtle reminder of who was a guest on whose land, Lucas looked away. "No, madam."

"Very well. When you feel up to it, you may join the rest of us downstairs." With that, she opened the door and was gone, shutting it behind her rather harder than was strictly necessary. Lucas sighed, worked the rest of the bedclothes free, and started towards the chair feeling strangely melancholy.

* * *

**A/N:** A certain prince isn't allowed to have dignity in this fic. I still haven't decided how long that will last. Reviews are, as usual, greatly appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Well. Been back at college for almost a month and finally got around to posting a new chapter. Sorry, guys.

* * *

For the lair of a reclusive family entangled in the dark arts, the Addams manor was surprisingly straight-forward. Its layout seemed much the same as many others he'd been in, and so Lucas made his way through the halls easily. The tapestries in his room- the guest room, he mentally corrected himself –seemed to be part of a set. More gore-spattered scenes hung on the walls beyond. Padding down the corridor barefoot, he paused to examine one. To his surprise, several of the tiny woven warriors appeared to be women.

A pale face with large brown eyes filled his mind, and surprise gave way to a tenuous understanding.

Several heavy wooden doors on both sides of the hall stood closed. The more he saw of this family, the less disturbing them seemed in his best interest. Besides, he was a guest. Asking entry to closed rooms uninvited would be rude. One door in particular also seemed to be making very feminine moaning sounds; he passed by it as quickly as possible. A set of large portraits near the staircase provided a welcome distraction.

Two were group portraits, with at least seven people in each. Despite the figures' unusually dark clothing and physical deformities, what caught his interest were the paintings immediately beside the staircase. Two of them, in ornate gold frames, each nearly as tall as he was.

One showed a man about his father's age, rather short and heavyset, with swarthy skin and a small black moustache. A statuesque woman in a tight dress who looked oddly familiar stood beside the man, fixing the viewer with an intense gaze. This, he supposed, was a portrait of the current Count and Countess of Schwartzwald.

The other portrait was slightly larger and depicted three people instead of two. One was a young boy sitting in front of a bookshelf, the spitting image of the Count, wearing a striped shirt and a scowl. Near his chair stood another child, this one with a wooden horse and wearing a romper suit that showed him to be much younger. But the third figure was immediately recognizable. She was a bit younger, with long, wavy hair and a purple satin gown, but it was clearly Wednesday. If her face hadn't made that obvious, the ornate dagger in her hand did.

Lucas stepped closer to examine the painting's details- but stopped. Faint singing from outside floated in through the window, in spite of the thick curtains. He walked to the window and peered out.

The source of the music was a shock, to say the least. Wednesday stood in a corner of the kitchen garden, bent over a dusty-looking plant. As she worked, her voice- lovely if strangely forceful –floated out across the estate. Lucas was briefly reminded of home. Lauren always sang as she tended her rose garden, pruning the bushes with delicate golden shears. The royal greenhouses often echoed with her high, sweet voice. Granted, it could grate on one's nerves at six o'clock in the morning.

The familiarity was odd. This maiden was a witch, the child of a reclusive noble. Surely sorceresses did nothing so ordinary as singing while they tended a garden. And yet, there she was. As he watched, she stood and placed something in a sack on the ground, only to turn and accidentally knock said bag over with her foot. No sooner had she knelt to gather up spilled leaves and roots, then the underbrush at the edge of the forest rustled and-

"Oh my lawd!"

A flat voice screeched in his ear. The prince jumped. A second later, someone slapped the back of his head.

"Well, bless my soul! If it ain't the governor's son himself! Mamie, fetch some sweet tea and mint juleps!" said the small, wizened old woman who danced into view. She held out her tattered brown skirts and dropped a curtsy, knees creaking almost louder than the floorboards. Batting her eyelashes. She smiled. Lucas noticed that the patches on her clothing outnumbered her teeth.

The crone leered up at him. "Admiring the garden, sonny?" she asked. He cringed at the rotting-meat stench of her breath.

"Erm…yes?" he said.

"Because if I didn't know any better, I'd say it wasn't the hemlock you cared about." There was a twinkle in her eye Lucas wasn't sure he liked.

"Madam, I assure you, I was merely-"

But he was abruptly silenced when the woman grabbed his arm and yanked him, with surprising strength, to her side. Her rheumy eyes seemed to bore into his. "Don't think I don't know what blossom's caught your fancy," she cackled.

Lucas swallowed hard. "My intentions- that is, I'm betrothed- not to speak ill of your…" he took a guess, "granddaughter. But Princess Amanda of-"

"My granddaughter?" She let him go, shoving him away so hard that he collided with the windowsill. A gale of rasping laughter burst from her shriveled mouth. "My granddaughter? What do you want with her? The girl's crazy as a loon, a total prude, no fun at all. Plus bitter as Kanye at the VMAs."

The metaphor made no sense, but he ignored it. "Then who…?"

"Delilah." She winked.

"Delilah," Lucas said flatly.

"Yep."

"The horse."

"Know any other Delilahs around here?"

After a moment's pause, he decided not to press the issue. The more he saw of the House Addams, the more he suspected madness was their norm.

"So," he said, backing towards the stairs, "your horse has many suitors?"

Her bushy eyebrows knitted in a frown. "You been sitting in the sun too long, boy."

"What?"

"If you're going a-courting outside, tell her to bring me some belladonna berries."

Lucas blinked. "The lady or the horse?"

With another toothless grin, the old woman hobbled over to the prince and slapped him on the back. "Go get 'er, lover-boy!" she crowed, and started down the hall once more.

"What just happened?" he whispered to no-one in particular. The paintings merely gazed down at him- not that he'd expected an answer. Not really. Though, by now, he doubted anything in the Addams manor could surprise him. He turned and descended the stairs.

After passing a great fish mounted on the wall with what looked like a human leg in its mouth, the stuffed head of some strange deer, and a painting of a cameleopard in a man's suit, he no longer doubted his capacity for surprise. What _was_ this family, that magic was not the strangest sight under their roof?

The kitchen seemed reassuringly normal- though normal and unusual were rapidly becoming muddled in his mind. The same large fireplace as the palace kitchen he'd run into and out of as a child stealing tea cakes. The same iron spit for roasting meat. The same copper pots and pans, trays of rising bread, fruit drying on a wooden rack, herbs hanging from the ceiling. A large table with chairs, though all considerably more scarred than those at home. One particular chair he passed was blackened as if it had been fired from a cannon. Recalling Wednesday and what he knew of her youngest brother- the painting had implied at least one more –Lucas once again revised his definition of "normal." If feeding guests caterpillars was part of the usual Addams childhood…

He followed the sound of singing through a side door (ignoring the dead snake nailed to it and outside. The garden was a profusion of midsummer green. Though plants were a mystery to him, he thought there were just as many weeds as desirable things. Wednesday's song, however, soon distracted him from botanical observations.

"_He made harp-pins of her fingers fair,  
Hey hey ho and a bonny-o,  
And made harp-strings of her golden hair,  
The stream flows so bonny-o._

_He made a harp of her breastbone-"_

Suddenly, she fell silent. Lucas peered around a tall, flowering shrub and saw her kneeling on the ground, half-full sack at her feet. On her hand perched a crow, its feathers stark against her pale skin.

"_Hey hey ho and a bonny-o,"_ she continued. The crow cawed, and a few moments later Lucas realized its calls were in time with the music. Could this be like Lauren and her songbirds? The twittering, blue things always flocked to her.

Sure enough, another crow joined the first, and another. A hawk glided into the garden and settled on Wednesday's right shoulder. The left was soon occupied by a huge eagle owl.

Four badgers, a polecat, two vultures, and at least a dozen spiders later, the scene no longer reminded him of Lauren. Lucas turned to go back to the house, vague thoughts of breakfast filling his mind. So it was only to be expected that he didn't notice the horse in the way until he ran into it.

Delilah regarded him coolly. She didn't move.

"Shoo," the prince whispered. Nothing.

"Shoo!" he tried again, a bit louder and with helpful hand gestures toward the stable.

Snort.

"…go home?"

Whinny.

"No, shh! Shh! I'm going back to the house!"

Delilah stared a him for a moment, then over his shoulder at Wednesday. Who, he dimly registered, had switched to a song about a woman running her husband through with his own sword. Delilah put her head down against his chest, snorted again, and started walking forward.

Lucas tried digging his heels in, then grabbing onto a tree branch. All it got him was muddy feet and a fistful of leaves. The horse was a moving glacier, and he had no choice but to move or be mown over. Little by little, he found himself forced into the open, down the garden path, towards the viscountess and her woodland menagerie. When he was practically on top of her, Delilah abruptly stopped and neighed loudly. Wednesday looked up.

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh. It's you."

"Blame the horse, milady," he said. "I was on my way back inside."

"Where I suppose you expect to be waited upon hand and foot?"

"What-"

"We're not accustomed to pampered princelings here," she continued briskly, brushing soil off her apron.

"I actually-" he began, but was again cut off.

"And, of course, a house of such dissolution cannot-" Delilah's tail whipped out and struck her in the face.

Wednesday spluttered; the horse nickered pointedly at her. To Lucas' surprise, her moon-white cheeks turned pink.

After staring at the ground for a moment, she quietly said, "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," he said. "I was wrong to ask such a prying question."

Silence. When he looked up, her brown eyes were wide. "You apologized?"

"Yes," he said hesitantly, "because I was rude. And wrong. It's a thing that is commonly done. When you do something wrong." From the corner of his vision, he noticed Delilah rolling her eyes.

"Not in my experience," she replied, and gathered up her burlap bag. "I should also apologize, milord. I was wrong to snap at you, and wrong to take you for the kind of fool I must usually suffer."

"Lucas."

Wednesday paused in releasing a few spiders back into the forest. "Beg pardon?"

"Call me Lucas," he said, a bit shyly. "No-one ever does."

"Then to what do I owe the privilege?" she asked. The last of the animals- the eagle owl –took wing and was soon lost above the trees. Lucas looked at her, really looked for the first time. Heavy-lidded eyes, thin lips, a small mole on her forehead, gown drab and wrinkled, hands dirty, feet bare (he noticed, with some alarm, an extra toe on one foot). And in a moment of clarity, he realized that she was beautiful.

"You are the first honest maiden I have ever met. I'd prefer to be honest in return," he said carefully. "And honestly, I'm just Lucas."

She stared down the path to the house. "More likely the first maiden you've met who was permitted to be honest," she replied, but there was something of a smile in her eyes. "Are you implying, then, that there shall never be a lie between us?"

Lucas followed her, jogging to catch up. "I believe I am."

Then, wonder of wonders, she actually laughed. "We'll see if you can manage such a feat…Lucas."

* * *

**A/N: **"Cameleopard" is an archaic term for a giraffe. Because apparently they look like a cross between a camel and a leopard. Go figure.


End file.
